


The Surgeon

by Dootisart



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst, Blood, Depression, Mental Health Issues, Metaphors, Mild Gore, Sad, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 21:52:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7731112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dootisart/pseuds/Dootisart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He refused to become like them... the invisible ones. But its harder than it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Surgeon

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Tf2 inspired fic, I had to write it for school so i thought id just put it up here and such.... enjoy!

The invisible ones, they were everywhere.

Every day I met them, my career inevitably allowed that. As a surgeon, you got used to patients entering and leaving hospital. Sometimes they never left. And they would be forgotten, non-existent. Invisible. They were the ones who didn’t appear on the news, and the ones that everyone knew, but never really knew. However, that was different for me; I met these people. I operated on them and most of left, never to be seen again. Just numbers rolling into the room. The ones that never left; that was completely different.

They were the invisible ones. 

During my time, I came to realise they were more than just numbers. That my everyday work would ultimately determine the fate of a life. I gazed upon their hearts, their brains, their entire being. They would never be invisible to me and because of this I was a patient to another doctor. They said I had an illness. But it wasn’t, it was a black plague that ate away my life. They all felt the same though- the surgeons. We all knew what helplessness felt like. When your hands were covered in their weakness and you realise that their blood was just as thick and their skin just as thin as everyone else’s. And they’d die. Whenever I heard the monotonous flat line ring in my ears, I knew it was another invisible one I couldn’t etch out of my memory. Another life lost, and another invisible one for death to sweep into his loving arms. That was the thing about being a surgeon. You didn’t have the luxury to forget. 

Inconsistency and abruptness were not unfamiliar in this line of work. Another number rolled into the surgery room, but it seemed the patient had a face this time. My hands, they were numb from the pain of loss, clenched with fear. It surged throughout my body like an illness; unwanted. My nose burnt from the familiar smell of iron protruding from my former acquaintance. A girl in my high school class, her fiery eyes distinct within my memory, now a burnt out soul-less stare. It was always more horrific when you knew them, it always hurt more when you knew them. 

As soon as I saw her, it was foreseeable that I was incompetent to perform the task. She was too far gone, whatever misfortune that was bestowed upon her followed her into safety, into where she was supposed to be healed. But this was no miracle room. She had already become invisible. The flat line branded my ears before surgery even began, before I could find the source of pain, before I could find the problem. She was gone; death was really unforgiving. 

I found that when I knew the patient, those were the times I ended up as one myself. Another death with a face; another day in therapy. I had tried to save her. Sometimes I wondered who really needed the saving. The refusal to become invisible was slowly diminishing. I was told to take medicine. They told me it would make me happy, it would make me normal once again. But it wasn’t an illness. It was a nuisance, and it couldn’t be fixed by drugs they so persistently wanted me to shove into an empty shell. 

These doctors that I saw; I faced them with no face and they forgot me every day. To them, I would be just another number rolling into the room, one that would come and go, never to be seen again. The black plague became stronger within my body despite the help I so helplessly sought out. My body felt alien, my mind; controlled. It took over me.

I had found myself wafting into my own world, I could feel myself giving in to my inevitable fate. No one saw me, I was only a body in a world full of everybody. I was background noise, never heard. Maybe that was the reason it never saw me, when I had jumped across it. The vehicle, the black plague that manifested itself to follow me in the real world. It attacked me, and hit me. My breath left my body and only then did I feel some of myself return to the body that felt alien to me. 

That white ceiling, it was so crisp, clean and familiar. The squeaking wheels, the repeating lights. A body so numb. Anaesthesia. It was all the same, but I felt so different. Numb, numb, numb. 

My life was on the line, trauma so intense. My physical body was fading and my mentality disappearing. I could have saved so many lives. I had saved so many lives. I was tired. My surgery inevitable. The oxygen mask that adorned my face cleared my head somewhat, but I could feel myself slipping. The unsteady beeping of the life monitor echoed in my head. I felt myself becoming invisible. 

Beep, beep, beep.

Nothing.


End file.
